A few weeks ago, a friend and I were walking through Spitalfields Market with a bunch of sandwiches and wine, on our way to Hoxton Square for a picnic, when two women stopped us. “Can we take your picture?” they asked. “It’s for Vogue Street Chic.”

Needless to say, I was skeptical. My friend and I were dressed for a picnic. I was wearing jeans, and they were cuffed. But the ladies made me sign a photo release, and then they asked me a bunch of questions mostly about my style icons and where my outfit came from. That was when I realized that it is actually possible to be embarrassed of wearing jeans and a t-shirt:

“Well, my jeans are Topshop, the blazer is secondhand from L.A., the top is Mads Norgard Copenhagen, the shoes are from Zurich Station, the bag is vintage Lancel from a Paris flea market, the sunglasses are secondhand from Brooklyn, and I made the jewelry myself from Victorian watch pieces, pearls and vintage chains…”

At this point, the nice Vogue interview lady started giving me a skeptical look, as though she suspected that I was taking the mickey and had just bought the whole thing from H&M last week. And then she asked what I did for a living.

“Um,” I said, cringing, wishing the whole thing had never happened. “I’m a novelist?”

“Right,” she said, with this dubious little smile.

And that’s how I wound up on Vogue.com under the name “Robyn Schneide.”